The Seven Month Engagement
by OliviaHills
Summary: "No anarchy, sir," Andrea joked, "just an argument, understandably. We've been together for the past seven months and this is the first fight we've ever had," he squinted his eyes in evident confusion, and Andrea waved her hands, "oh, no, we're not…no. No. We're just companions, we've been companions for seven months, not…no. No." A glimpse in the lives of Andrea and Michonne.


What can I say? Michonne/Andrea=Perfection.

But honestly, I prefer the Woodbury storyline much more than the shitty, predictable character angst going on in the prison (however, I will say that season 3 has had a significantly better start than the second, and it's really making me antsy for Sunday nights).

And truly, the months Andrea and Michonne spent together is really open for any interpretation, and I'd like to give it a shot; I just picked random scenarios from their winter together. Wish me luck.

* * *

_Day 1_

The sun finally begins to set around what seemed like six or seven, yet, predictably in the state of Georgia, the humidity has lost none of its vigor, and under the fifteen-so pounds of robes, Michonne feels two tons of clothes all around her. Underneath the hood, she's sweating like a bitch and the water pours from her forehead into her eyes, but she doesn't make a move to remove it.

Hidden behind the denseness of Southern forest, she watches, waits as if a predator poised to attack, as the stranger, a woman presumably in her late twenties to early thirties, scrambles out of the underbrush, backpack in one hand and trigger squeezed in the other. A horde of the undead clamor, almost as quick as the woman, directly behind her, and as she shoots one, two, three, down, another nine come and replace them. More than a few times Michonne catches the click of an empty cartridge, and usually she has a few seconds of time-out to reach into the knapsack, fish out some spanking-new bullets and go trigger happy, but the unnerving quiet and the cry of "Shit!" tells Michonne that it's about time to get to work.

Not a moment to spare, either. Fifteen feet, maybe less distance between the two, and she can already identify the fatigue in the woman's movements, the exhaustion in her eyes. One of Them staggers across the uneven forest floor, and Michonne picks up the pace and yanks the chain; undead regardless, she can see the unwavering purpose in its yellow eyes, hear how the grunts and groans amplified as the meal came closer and closer. The woman finally notices, too; unable to stand, she staggers backwards, jutting out a leg to deter the creature.

"No," she's whispering, but as the thing closes the distance and she can no longer move as her back hits the tree, it turns into full blown screaming, "no, no, _no-!_"

The woman recoils forcefully as specks of blood hit her cheek, and, sitting there in open-mouthed silence as the headless body hits the ground, Michonne raises a brow as she is unable to acknowledge her savior, instead fixated on the lifeless being that almost consumed her. Finally, when she gets her eye fill of the dead, she risks a slow stare upwards, chest expanding sharply when exposed to the chained undead. Even more so when she is unable to catch a glimpse of the person that assuredly saved her life.

Yet Michonne makes no move to remove the hood; instead, she offers a calloused, outstretched hand to the stranger, and after a brief, unsure pause, Michonne is somewhat surprised when she takes it.

* * *

_Month 3_

"You know what's funny?"

Michonne swiveled her head towards Andrea, silent as ever. For all the days they spent in each other's forced company, Andrea did not doubt that she could probably count the amount of words Michonne had actually spoken on her fingers. Using her toes would probably be too much.

And even still, Andrea continued to talk, knowing that a response back would be something akin to a miracle; perhaps they had finally reached an understanding of each other, where Andrea would prattle away about petty topics, and Michonne would simply watch, her gaze shifting between the blonde and her blade.

Or maybe Andrea just liked to hear herself talk.

"I just found out today was the twenty-sixth." She sighed wistfully, looking out at the streets of the abandoned town covered in the pure white blankets of snow. Looking closer, one could catch the glimpses of Walker skulls just barely sticking out from the frost, "I can't believe it."

Michonne raised a brow, as she locked eyes with the other woman. In the other room, her companions groaned.

"December twenty-sixth?" The blonde repeated; when again met with the exact blank stare from moments ago, Andrea gawked, an astounded look plastered on her unwashed face, "It's right after one of the biggest holidays of the year…?"

Dreadlocks concealing the amused glint in her eye, Michonne kept her head down without hesitation, though her prior task, sharpening the Katana to be used for a later slay, gradually slowed to a stop, "There's your problem right there. I don't celebrate holidays."

"Huh. So…not even your birthday?"

She shook her head, biting back a mischievous grin, "I was created in a test tube."

Andrea opened her mouth, closed it immediately, and looked Michonne in the eye, an unreadable expression in those blue corneas. As a moment of silence came and passed, the blonde broke down, and allowed a smirk to lift the corners of her mouth, a gleam in her eyes Michonne had never seen before; yet, she decided she liked it.

"Damn liar."

The black woman held up her hands in a gesture of defeat, "Fine. You caught me," she hesitated a moment, "I'm actually from outer space. My ship crash landed here when I was a child."

Andrea snorted, "Really? I'd like to see some proof then."

"You ever heard of Roswell?"

"Yes?"

Michonne pointed her thumb at her chest proudly, "That was me."

The blonde nodded, squinting her eyes as if the enigma named Michonne finally made sense, and, with that gesture, the other woman almost believed that if she went along with it for a few more days, by the weeks end she could have Andrea convinced that her traveling companion was initially from Mars.

"So, if you're an alien, then it won't be so hard to believe when I tell you I'm actually a mermaid."

"Huh," she craned her head to get a look at Andrea's backside, as if she would see something other than dirty legs and feet, "some mermaid you are."

She recoiled, taking immediate play-defense, "Hey, don't you shit talk my heritage. And if you must know, E.T., my tail was lost in a freak accident involving a domesticated sea-witch."

"Tell me more."

"I struck a deal with this lady that if I could find my Prince Charming during the zombie apocalypse, I'd get my tail back," Andrea sighed wistfully, petting a clothed leg sadly, "I thought I found my Prince."

"You didn't?"

"No. He just needed someone to bone and I was the only one willing and available at the time. Remember that sea-witch I was talking about? Turns out he was still in love with her, even though she had a husband; thus, she had no choice but to take my merwoman-hood away."

Michonne wiped an imaginary tear from her eye, shaking her head so the braids went in all stray directions, "Men ain't shit."

"No," Andrea corrected, "sea-witches ain't shit."

And with that, the duo fell into a verbal lull, each in their own comfortable silence, as Michonne resumed tending to her sword and Andrea began to drift off, overcome by fantasies of sea-witches and her and Amy, both with mermaid tails and not a care in the world. The day progressed into nighttime, and before Andrea could be captured by sleep, she managed to spit out just a few words.

"Merry belated Christmas, Michonne. Even if aliens don't celebrate it."

* * *

_Month 5_

Michonne wondered if they would ever see the sun again; for it seemed, winter had no intention of letting up anytime soon.

Even in December, notorious for its freezing temperatures and the start of winter, the weather hadn't been harsh enough to prevent them from venturing outside. In fact, the walkers frozen in the snow, unable to scavenge or much less move a muscle fell with ease at the swing of her sword. The cold affected the undead so much so that, in their travels, passing an abandoned small town like the dozens they encountered before, Andrea promptly picked up the head of a decapitated walker (still growling even behind frozen lips, god bless him) and used it in a game between the two; though she would never say it aloud, Michonne never had so much fun playing Ice Hockey using tree branches as the sticks, and a zombie head as the puck.

"I-I totally won that game." Andrea remembered, the recollection of that day set off by a lone walker in the middle of the street, head dangling to one side in what looked like an attempt by a survivor to cut his head off. No dice, obviously.

Michonne didn't bother to answer. Inside, the bone-chilling cold seeped in through the cracks of the house, and with a sleeve she wiped the frost from the windows; maybe once upon a time, this ranch had functioning heating and a fridge and a nice warm bed to sleep on, all the amenities of a true home. Obviously, the previous owner either must've had an idea of what was coming early in the game, or had a really big moving truck during the collapse of civilization.

"No fridge, no bed, no clothes, no _nothing_," as if in sync with her own thoughts, Andrea repeated aloud the difficulties they faced inside; they hadn't much of a choice, however, because outside was in the midst of a blizzard, "Jesus, Michonne, these people hauled ass out. Empty kitchen, empty bedroom, empty _closets_!"

Andrea didn't have the heart for patience today. Frustrated to the brink of tears, she tore the loose shelf from the closet (empty, of course) and hurled it into the hallway, where it hit the tacky maroon rug with a bang. Michonne didn't deter her in the least; even if they did attract any of Them, it wouldn't be too much for the duo to handle, and, to an extent, she believed that the walkers were having a time of their own. Temperatures must've been at least low twenties, high teens; enough to freeze them in their tracks.

Tantrum finished, the blonde finally took a seat next to her companion on the barren mattress, breath ragged and cheeks bright pink from the effort. Michonne observed, but did not speak. In her eyes, she could see Andrea thinking something out, and she constantly kept peeking down the hallway, looking ready to spring at the slightest stimulant.

"There something you want to tell me?" unsure, Michonne pried slowly, speaking soft and clear and looking Andrea in the eye the entire time. Seconds passed, and the warrior nearly fell over in shock as the blonde bolted upright, and started down the hall.

"I think I remember…something up there," she grasped words from her rapid thoughts, unable to properly make a sentence as the excitement overwhelmed her, "stay here, I'll be back."

"Holler if something goes wrong." She called, but Andrea was already long out of sight, and her actions, in hindsight, had been so sudden and unpredicted, Michonne drew her blade, and stood at full height, taking a step to follow her unlikely companion. But before she could even get out of the bedroom, she heard scuffling noise, like someone dragging their feet, and saw an off-red color that could almost match the shade of the carpet coming down the hall.

"What the-?"

She heard Andrea's laugh over the howling of the storm, "Taa-Daa! Told you I'm useful for something other than Walker Hockey," dumping the sheets and blankets, a good, sturdy pile that looked sturdy toward the cold, Andrea began to make the empty mattress once more, and Michonne suddenly found herself extremely tired, "now, stop looking at me like I've got three heads and help me make up this damn bed."

In perfect, exhausted tandem, the two finished in good time. Neither took the time to strip from their winter outfits, opting only to taking their shoes and heavy coats off, and climbed into the bed, a little more comfortable than before. Outside, the wind howled with enough force to rock the house.

"After the storm, you wanna play some hockey?"

Michonne laughed, turning onto her backside and letting her eyes slip shut.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

_Month 7—Woodbury, Georgia_

Andrea sighed, placing her hands to her forehead and combing her fingers through knotty blonde hair, in a peaceful (seemingly peaceful) attempt to calm herself down. Arguing on almost a daily basis took a great toll on her, one she hadn't even realized was in place until her resolve came crashing down. Not three feet away sat all her problems and her solutions all wrapped up into one body, and as Andrea dangerously bordered a nervous breakdown, Michonne didn't seem the least bit phased.

"You still can't be thinking about leaving." The blonde pressed, lips tight in one thin line. Unfortunately, Michonne nodded her head, and turned her gaze to the Woodbury community, right outside the window.

"This place isn't for me, Andrea. I don't want to stay."

She grit her teeth in frustration, opened her mouth to say something harsh, and thought again. Just because she was upset didn't mean she had the right to take it out on Michonne.

"Why? Why, Michonne? You remember all those empty towns we passed while moving—how many towns do you think we went through? Sixty? Seventy?"

"Seventy-two," she corrected, though her eyes dropped down to the wood floor.

"Case in point. And how many of those towns actually still had _people_ in them? Real, live, flesh and blood, not _hungry_ for flesh and blood, people in them? How many actually had functioning communities, with working facilities and a town square?"

Michonne laughed bitterly, "At one point, they probably all did."

"I'm not talking about 'one point'. I'm talking about _now_," her voice dropped, and, if only to prevent the woman that had saved her life from leaving, she would have dropped to her knees and plead from the ground, "_Michonne_, please. There's nothing out there, for you, me, any of us—the world belongs to them now, and it will…at least until they die out. But that could be decades before that happens. And suddenly we stumble upon a town that, in essence, is the new Eden, and you just want to up and leave?"

Andrea paused, overcome with such emotion and passion, she had to catch herself; steading her breathing, she had no choice but to close her eyes. The colors and sounds became too much and when a hand touched the skin of her arm, she almost jumped through the roof.

"Andrea. Open your eyes." Michonne, and her commanding, take-no-shit tone was comforting, familiar, something she could understand in this upside-down world of no-guarantees, and at that moment, Andrea had no idea what the hell she would do with herself if Michonne actually had the intention of leaving. She had never experienced withdrawal syndrome before; not with the love of her life she met in college, not with the second love of her life she met in Atlanta, briefly when faced with the death of Amy, yet, when this woman she didn't even know existed a few months ago threatened to go, she became a blubbering mess.

Ain't that a bitch.

"Sorry," Andrea rubbed her eyes, and rechecked her sudden emotions, "sorry. I just…sorry."

Before either had a chance to respond, there was a knock on the door, soft and quick. Andrea looked at Michonne, but her eyes and thoughts were far away from Woodbury, far away from Georgia. It was evident she didn't want to be here, and Andrea definitely didn't want her to stick around if she didn't want to. Michonne was a grown ass woman; it was her choice, not Andrea's.

She stood, boots clicking against the wooden floor and the door came closer and closer.

"Ladies? Are you two in here?"

The Governor. Andrea sped her pace, reaching out to grab the handle.

"Come—"

"I'll stay."

She stopped in her tracks. Turning a full 360, Andrea looked Michonne square in the face, instantly searching for a sign that showed any kind of doubt, but she held the same expression on her face like usual. Calm, collected, a little intimidating, as if the woman was crafted out of stone itself.

"Michonne," she shook her head; outside, Andrea could hear the footsteps of the Governor pacing in front of the door, "no. If you don't want to—"

She raised a hand, to silence her, "I'll stay for the time being. There _is_ something I don't trust about this place but…but for now, it's better than nothing."

A knock on the door once more, but it fell on deaf ears to both. The two companions simply stared at each other, no words between them, each thinking the same thoughts as the other. She felt it too, but wasn't as compelled to share; Woodbury had something eerie going on, a dark past (or present) using the front of a functioning town, and Andrea was determined to get to the bottom of it, be it through the Governor, or less likely, the one-handed Merle. And she certainly didn't have any long term plans in the town, if only to stay long enough to fill on food, and move onto the next place with Michonne. She wanted to leave, just as badly as the next person, but the fantasy didn't seem whole without the companionship of the other woman.

Andrea swung open the door, and the Governor stood outside as patient as ever, keeping an close eye on the sitting Michonne. Clearing his throat, he beckoned Andrea into the hall.

"I heard yelling," he began, and the blonde wiped her mouth with the back of her hand to keep away the smile, "is everything alright with you two? I understand a little petty dispute, but I wouldn't want a social uprising on my hands here."

She eyed the secretive man, fixated on his choice of words. Social uprising?

"No anarchy, sir," she joked, yet he looked offended, almost defensive, "just an argument, understandably. We've been together for the past seven months and this is the first fight we've ever had."

The Governor squinted his eyes in evident confusion, furrowing both eyebrows in a way that made him look a little like a Muppet, and Andrea furrowed her brows back, replaying her sentence in her mind to make sure everything checked out okay, nothing to make them antsy. But still, he gave her that damn face, and she had half a mind to lose her temper.

"What's the problem?"

"It's just…that," he rubbed the back of his head, making it a point to look everywhere but at Andrea, "I had…I had no idea you two were…_together _together. I would have set you up with a different room then, with a bigger bed, I reckon."

"Oh…no! _No_! No!" Andrea waved her hands, shaking her head vigorously as if to dispel the thought itself from her head, unsure to either laugh uncontrollably or gawk at the thought of them together, "no, we're not…no. No. We're just companions, we've been _companions_ for seven months, not…no. no."

Even the Governor's cheeks turned a light pink, and he apologized ten-fold, before retreating back down the hallway past some standing-by henchmen, whom, as he passed, snickered in delight. Andrea stood outside for a few seconds, taking a minute to laugh it off before going back into the room. The blonde plopped down on the bed, staring at the white-wash ceiling.

"Did he just imply that we're dating?" Michonne picked at her nails, evidently trying to keep the grin from her mouth by turning to the window.

"Yeah."

"That's a damn shame. He should know I'm way out of your league."

Andrea turned her head Michonne's way.

"Yeah."

* * *

Andrea/Michonne forever. I just don't know how to fem!slash guys.

Anyway, hope I did a good job.


End file.
